


faithless, woke in the dark

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-19
Updated: 2010-11-19
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: In which there is quite a lot of kissing, but that is certainly not all.





	

He never thought it could be like this.

She's dozing drowsily, the light from the winter morning drifting in from the window, cutting planes into the pale skin. He's been watching her for half an hour now, measuring the pace of his breathing, prolonging the moment of such serene peace. She's wearing the nightgown he bought her, simple cotton and eyelet lace, and it's a surprise in itself that she even let him get so close--that he's allowed to buy things like nightgowns and tampons and her favourite nail varnish, that he's allowed to buy her anything at all and not feel like he's intruding. That her carefully constructed world, her ivory fortress, has granted him entry.

No. He never thought it could be like this.

"You're staring again," she murmurs, catching him out. "You know it makes you seem like a vampire."

"I am not a vampire, and I resent the implication," he replies, reaching a hand out to grasp her hip and roll her toward him. "Come here."

She smiles beatifically up at him. "Good morning," she says, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Mmm," he agrees, levering himself to kiss her. "A very good morning indeed." She lifts a small hand to the side of his face and draws him back towards her, taking full advantage of the ten minutes they have before her alarm goes off.

And he loves this, truly he does; her mouth is soft and full under his own and she gives herself into the kiss with a naivety that terrifies him. Her hands twine in his hair, her body pressing up against his, her mouth open, tongue putting up a fair fight against his own. He's drowning in it, in her smell, in her taste, in the feel of her skin under his hands. He never wants to resurface. He never wants to face anything but this, never wants to have to leave. The rest of the world be damned--he's never felt at home like this, not even in his own home. He grasps her tightly and presses his mouth even harder against hers.

She sighs into the kiss. "I don't have time for this, Eames," she says in a soft whine. "I have class, you know I do."

"I don't care," he murmurs, brushing his thumb over her hipbone. "Be late. Skive off. spend the day in bed with me, I'll make you eggs and toast." His mouth drifts to the corner of her jaw, mapping the smooth skin there.

"You say that every day," she replies, pushing ineffectually at his shoulders. "It's a wonder I ever get to class at all. Go on, gerroff, I have to shower."

He kisses her again in response, licking roughly into her mouth, tracing the line of her teeth, lavishing attention on her bottom lip. She hums prettily, arching into the touch, blunt nails raking through his hair. He kisses her for several interminable minutes before consenting to let go, losing himself in it. He's been here for months and it still intoxicates him, sends his head spinning and his heart stuttering, fresher than the breeze from the balcony, brighter than the sunlight over the trees. He is not tired of this place; he feels no restlessness; he is the closest to happy he has been in a long time, and it is her he must thank for it--with kisses, with the cooking, with the opportunities of every day. He's never known how it feels to be so grateful.

He gentles the kiss, letting her draw away and roll out of bed just as the alarm starts to sound. "I hate that screeching thing. Kill it with fire," she tells him, padding into the small bathroom while he shuts the offender off and gets up himself to start the coffee. The tile is cold against his toes. He thinks he might love her.

It doesn't scare him the way he thought it would, the way it scared Mal, sending her skittering around the atelier they shared so very many years ago, in love with her father's favourite student and utterly unprepared for it. Maybe it's because he's older, because he's watched his best friend die and woken to the day where it hurt a little less to think about. Maybe it's because Ariadne still has the uncanny ability to surprise him, just when he thinks he's seen it all. Maybe it's because he _does_ ask her to skive off every day, and she does tell him no. Because she could live without him. Because she doesn't want to, and neither does he. Because it's easy, to love such an extraordinary girl.

She emerges from the bedroom mostly dressed, her socked feet making no noise on the floor. He feels the absent kiss she places between his shoulder blades as she reaches for the coffee, feels the damp of her hair and the flutter of her eyelashes. They stand at the island together, he with the paper and she with her last lecture's notes, until the clock by the door chimes and she really must go.

He kisses her again, before she leaves. Presses what he now knows into the purse of her lips, quickly and with purpose, until he can feel her smile. "See you later," she says into his mouth.

"I love you," he doesn't say. "Later," he agrees, and sends her out the door with a playful shove.

"Oh, Eames," Arthur says, standing next to him. "You know you can't keep living like this."

"I'll live however I please, thank you, Arthur," Eames replies shortly, cocking his Sig in a fluid motion and lifting it to his head. "However I goddamn please."

Arthur closes his eyes as Eames fires.


End file.
